Edge persisting, though where it ends
Is unknowable, and in the widening
Despair, a friend sends me her photograph of
A tulip early blooming, closeup of rich ruby petals
About to unfold, brimming into the frame. I
Drive through rain.
Here we are, on the cusp of spring, and
Otherwise what else persists except
Sea changes that roil in all directions?
I look for green, I look for diamonds,
Magic droplets on bare branches,
Magic the stillness, save for rain.
The edge of hurt, the edge of desolation,
I tell myself, stand up now, and
Don't turn back, because
They have given up, and I don't think
That I have, quite.
Still, it's hard, the rain is cold,
There's not much green yet,
Really. Tulips wait, croplands flooded,
Water runs in rivulets, coursing out
New channels in the sodden ground,
Streams and ponds
Out of their banks.
On my quiet road no lights are on
Though it's grey, dusk coming soon. I feel
This edge of something, but
It's not for me to know.
I come in out of rain.
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